


Need for Weed

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bearded Stiles Stilinski, Drugs, First Kiss, Librarian Derek, M/M, Marijuana, Older Derek, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Derek, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:12:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek was nervous enough about this, aside from his hang-ups about rule breaking. He has no idea what he’s doing, and he’s already accepted the fact that he’s going to look like an idiot to whomever he buys from. He hadn’t counted on the dispensary’s delivery guy being utterly fucking gorgeous, and the type to brazenly (and unprofessionally) check Derek out as well, biting his plump, pink bottom lip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need for Weed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I'm going to start posting my shorter tumblr ficlets here as a series for your reading pleasure and bookmarking purposes, starting with this most recent one, my Happy 420 fic for all you stoner!sterek fans! 
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you for lovely comments! XOXO

“Derek? Hey, dude, this is Stiles from Emerald City Cannabis. I’m outside your building in a blue Jeep.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. I’ll be right down.” Derek hangs up his phone and rises from the couch, shoving the rolled-up sleeves of his black Oxford shirt up his forearms and smoothing the front of his dark jeans, his nerves flaring again. He grabs the cash he got from the ATM – two crisp hundreds – and his ID, locking his apartment door behind him, reassuring himself again that what he’s doing is completely legal.

He’s about to get into the car of a complete stranger with a weird name that probably isn’t even real, clutching a bunch of cash so he can buy pot; it all feels incredibly illegal, and is against all his straight-laced, rule-following instincts. If your parents knew what you were doing, he thinks, jogging down the stairs to meet his drug dealer. The only son of a prosecutor and a cop, Derek was a top D.A.R.E. graduate in the fifth grade (he still has the shiny jacket he won from the essay contest, for his treatise “No Need for Weed,” detailing all of the safe, healthy, and legal ways to have fun without drugs). He’s smoked pot exactly once in his life, senior year of college at a party because he wanted the guy he had a crush on to think he was cool (it worked, but the sex was disappointing.)

You’re thirty-two years old, he yells back at himself. And there’s nothing wrong with trying new things, especially legal things.

It’s raining hard, gray and dark out even though it’s only midafternoon, but he easily spots the beat up baby blue CJ-5 parked in the loading zone across the street from his building. He jogs across the street and around the back of it over to the passenger side, knocking on the window and bending down to peer in, pushing his glasses up his nose.

The guy, Stiles apparently, reaches over and pushes the door open, gesturing for Derek to get in. He does, the pungent, dank scent of marijuana enveloping him as he steps up into the battered old Jeep. It makes his palms sweat even more, the smell of it, of all things, making things really real for him. 

“Hey man, I’m Stiles, nice to meet you,” the guy turns toward him and smiles, offering a handshake. Cursing his sweaty palms, Derek takes it, noticing just how long his fingers are, how strong and sure as they grip his own. 

“Derek,” he replies, proud of how steady his voice sounds, especially since his stomach is starting to flip-flop too, body going a little haywire as he takes in Stiles’ big brown eyes, flecked with honeyed gold, bloodshot but still glittering, mischievous as he looks Derek up and down. Even through his rain-flecked glasses Derek can see just how extraordinarily beautiful he is; there are wild tufts of brown hair sticking out from under a slouchy red beanie, and he has a scatter of dark moles across his cheek, partially obscured by a patchy beard that is really kinda pitiful but that Derek can’t help but find endearing, sweet even.

It’s probably his smile, Derek reasons, which is wide and inviting, his lips making Derek think of words like succulent and lush. Or maybe it’s the way his nose is ever-so-slightly upturned, making him seem younger and more innocent than he likely is.

Fuck. Derek was nervous enough about this, aside from his hang-ups about rule breaking. He has no idea what he’s doing, and he’s already accepted the fact that he’s going to look like an idiot to whomever he buys from. He hadn’t counted on the dispensary’s delivery guy being utterly fucking gorgeous, and the type to brazenly (and unprofessionally) check Derek out as well, biting his plump, pink bottom lip.

“So,” Stiles says, tapping at a sleek-looking tablet in his lap, long lashes fluttering down. “You’re a first time customer, right? Here are the basics: I need to check your ID just to verify your age, it’s a sixty dollar minimum purchase but we’ve got a special now, if you spend eighty bucks, you get a free package of the edible Twinkies, which are hella fuckin potent and even more delicious than a real Twinkie.”

Stiles glances up and over, locks eyes with him for a long, silent moment, and then drops to stare at his mouth. Derek swallows hard, throat going dry, skin heating up under the heat of his gaze. “I’ve got everything listed on the website,” Stiles goes on, cheeks flushing red, “except for the Bubba Kush and the Blueberry. Oh, and for edibles, I’m out of the cookies and the lemon bars, but I have everything else.” Stiles tugs on edge of his beanie, fidgeting like he can’t sit still. “So,” he says, clicking his tongue. “What can I do ya for, Derek?”

“Um,” Derek stammers, flustered and overwhelmed. He rubs at the back of his neck, looking away from Stiles’ expressive eyebrows raised in question, his own cheeks going hot. His beard mostly hides his blush, and Derek’s grateful he hasn’t listened to Laura’s pestering about how he needs to trim it because ‘people are going to think he’s the homeless guy who lives in the library instead of the librarian’. “I don’t really know…” he drifts off, finally meeting Stiles’ eyes again, feeling a little desperate.

He must look it too, because Stiles cocks his head and smiles gently. “Have you ever smoked pot, Derek?”

“Once, in college,” Derek admits, grabbing on to the lifeline. “A long time ago,” he adds feebly. Good job dummy, he admonishes himself. Make sure the ridiculously hot young guy knows you’re old as well as boring as hell.

“All right, cool man. Never too late to start, right?” Stiles’ grin is wide again, infectious and energetic. He reaches into the backseat and grabs a large, black plastic case, the odor of pot intensifying when he snaps it open. “What brings you back into the fold, Derek-who’s-only-smoked-back-in-ye-olden-times?”

Rolling his eyes and trying to ignore the way his heart thumps when Stiles says his name, Derek explains. “I heard it was a good option for insomnia.” Derek’s friend and coworker Erica suggested he smoke pot to help his anxiety and sleeping problems (well, her exact words were Der, babe, you just need to smoke a bowl and chill the fuck out, and get laid too while you’re at it, but either way, her advice was compelling enough that Derek took down the name of dispensary she recommended.)

Stiles is watching him, unnervingly bold, eyes shimmering as they dance across his face, down his neck to his chest, his attention reminding Derek that he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt when he pulled off his sweatervest after work, that his chest hair is peeking out in tufts. “You need a strong indica,” Stiles says finally, voice a little unsteady, Derek thinks, hopes.

“Okay,” Derek nods, watching Stiles’ hands sort through the neatly organized case, flitting over the dozens of small plastic bags, trying not to think of what those long, strong-looking fingers might feel like on his skin, running through his shaggy hair. He imagines his hands weaving through his chest hair, leading the way for his mouth, which is shiny now, from Stiles licking his lips. “Whatever you recommend,” Derek manages to get out, his own voice unsteady now too. 

“Blue Mystic or Dutch Thunder Fuck are both good choices,” Stiles says, holding up two of the pre-packaged quarter ounce bags. “Both are good for relaxation and insomnia, and I’ve always had the best body highs with the Dutch Thunder Fuck.”

Derek swallows again, unsure of what a body high is but suddenly very eager to find out, preferably with Stiles. “Sure, that sounds good.”

Stiles hands him the bag and returns to typing on the tablet, recording his purchase. “All right, a quarter of Dutch Thunder Fuck for Derek.” He snorts a snorts a laugh and mutters under his breath. “Derek is D-T-F.”

“Huh?”

“What? Oh, um, nevermind. That’s, uh, eighty bucks for a quarter of DTF.” The corner of Stiles’ mouth crooks up again, slow and twitchy, like Stiles is trying to fight his urge to grin, and failing spectacularly. “Oh, and I need to check your ID.”

Derek passes him his license, and, emboldened by Stiles’ blatant interest, lets his eyes wander down his plaid-clad body. He’s all long wiry angles, and there’s something about the taut line of his shoulders and his surprisingly muscular forearms that hints at more strength than his lean frame suggests.

Stiles’ beauty and magnetic allure already have him aroused and tantalizingly unsettled, but even so, it hits Derek hard, the sudden upswell of pure, unadulterated want that crashes into him like a sneaker wave. Stiles’ strength, armed with his cocksure attitude, could probably give Derek the kind of powerful, aggressive fucking he’s been craving, and Derek’s cheeks flame even hotter as he imagines all of the possibilities.

After studying his ID for a long time – much longer than necessary to just confirm his age, his lust-addled brain notes distantly – Stiles hands it back, biting his lip again, and Derek would give pretty much anything to know if he does that when he’s coming. He’s so caught up in his fantasy he doesn’t realize what his damned hand is doing, seemingly of its own volition, reaching out to take his license back but grasping Stiles’ fingers instead, a searing rush of skin-tingling pleasure thrumming through him at the touch, so visceral and powerful, so full of promise, his mouth drops open in awe.

The wave of embarrassment hits him almost as hard as the wave of desire, and the air in the Jeep becomes dense and cloying, and Derek’s heart is racing even faster, his stomach souring. Legal transaction or not, he’s fairly certain openly salivating over and groping one’s weed dealer is bad form.

He thrusts one of the hundreds at him, fumbling for the door handle, flustered and awkward. “Thank you very much, Stiles. Keep the change,” he sputters, hurried and quick, jumping out of the Jeep and slamming the door shut, clutching onto his purchase. 

~*~

Derek is still staring down at the unopened bag of Dutch Thunder Fuck and the still-unused glass pipe he bought at the gas station on his way home from work when there’s a knock on his door. Jolted from his shame spiral, he moves to hide his drug paraphernalia before remembering there’s no need to, and sighs, further admonishing himself as he goes to answer.

Derek hasn’t smoked yet, but he still feels dazed and wonders if it’s possible that he’s hallucinating, because Stiles is standing at his door, hat literally in hand. His hair is even wilder than Derek imagined, thick and soft-looking, sticking up in an adorable disarray that tugs at his heart and his cock. “Stiles?” He asks, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice.

“Yeah, hey man, sorry to bother you.” Stiles seems a little less relaxed than he was in the car, a little less sure of himself, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, fingers tapping on the small plastic packages he’s also holding in his big, beautiful hands. “But, uh, you forgot your free Twinkies.” He shoves one of the packages at him. “And I threw in a couple of truffles too, a first time customer thing. And because you tipped so generously.”

Derek takes the edibles, his embarrassment mellowing with each flirtatious flutter of Stiles’ long lashes and the hopeful, nervous lilt to his voice. “Thank you.” Derek smiles, realizing that it’s the first time in a long while that his smile has felt sincere and not even the least bit forced, and it makes him grin even wider, so wide it hurts his cheeks.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles mutters, losing his composure, his features scattering into an animated series of expressions that Derek can hardly begin to decipher but that he still somehow knows means that Stiles is spun too. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whines, almost like it’s an accusation, and Derek is about to accuse him right back but he can’t, because Stiles is kissing him, tripping over the threshold and his own feet in his eagerness.

The kiss is messy and enthusiastic, a heady mix of hesitation and certainty, of tentative, tender presses of lips and darting flicks of their overzealous tongues. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and their teeth click together more than once and Stiles is kinda crushing the sweets between them where Derek is still clutching them to his chest, and it’s utterly and completely perfect.

Stiles drops his beanie and Derek drops the packages, and, freed from their encumbrances, the kiss goes from sweet and messy to feverish and sure, Stiles pushing Derek back against the wall by the open door. It’s a fury of hungry, devouring kisses and gropes and grinding hips until they’re interrupted by the repeated beeps from the phone in Stiles’ pocket, notifications alerting him to new deliveries to make.

“I gotta go,” he pants, pulling back to look at him. Derek preens, ridiculously proud that he made this extraordinary boy so breathless, that he’s the one who roughed up his pretty mouth and chin with beard burn. “I work until nine,” Stiles says, stepping back, eyes glazed, as Derek knows his own must be too. “Want me to come back when I’m done?” Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak, too overcome with raw desire and affection, with his sudden new need for this hypnotic stranger.

“Awesome, dude.” Stiles kisses him again, soft and sweet this time, fingers running through Derek’s beard, a small noise of delight squeaking from the back of his throat. When Stiles pulls back, his lip curls up in a mischievous smirk, a devilish glint in his eye that belies the gentleness of his kiss. “I’m gonna get you so stoned that the slightest touch will feel like ecstasy,” he purrs, voice thick and dripping with sex, “and then I’m gonna suck your cock until you see stars.”

With that, Stiles saunters away, whistling, leaving Derek stunned, his head falling back against the wall with a thump. He’s not entirely sure what he’s gotten himself into, but he’s fairly certain he just discovered a new addiction.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [the Tumbles!](http://www.deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> UPDATE: here's a smutty [part two!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5175917)


End file.
